


The Witness

by Eireann



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Drama, Gen, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-24 01:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15619647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: The raid on Cornwallum and the murder of King Peredur have been discovered.  In Wintanceaster Leofric now awaits developments....





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Last Kingdom is copyrighted to Carnival Film and Television. No infringement is intended and no money made.

Recognition was instant.

Leofric took a step backward, but he already knew it was too late.  The pious bastard from Cornwallum had already spotted him, and he knew from the look of outraged astonishment that his luck had just run out.

“Who is that man?” Asser demanded, his finger pointing.

Alfred’s fine eyebrows drew together.  “You mean my warrior Leofric?”

“Yes!  That man was one of those – those pretend Danes who betrayed King Peredur!”  His voice rising into near hysteria, the monk was too focused on Leofric to look towards Æthelwold, who’d been trying to become invisible.  However, Alfred had the unfortunate knack of spotting a guilty face, and it was unlikely that he’d failed to notice the way his nephew was shrinking in his chair.

But for now, if he had, the actions of an ambitious fool could presumably be set aside to be investigated later.  The king’s already hard mouth thinned into a perfectly straight line as he stared at one of his most trusted warriors, who was emphatically not a fool – or had not shown himself to be one until now.  “Is this true?” he demanded.

Æthelwold had spent the days since his return to Wintanceaster spending the fruits of his illicit – and extremely profitable – foray into Cornwall.  As a result, his brain was undoubtedly so sodden with ale (and to make things worse, he’d been able to afford the best) that he simply wouldn’t have had a prayer of coming up with a convincing protest of his innocence quickly enough if he’d been challenged.  Fortunately for him, it seemed he’d got away with it.  At least for now.

Leaving Æthelwold to dig himself out of any trouble as best he could – after all, the fool had invited himself along to begin with, so whatever came of it was his own responsibility – Leofric steeled himself and stepped forward.

“Yes, Lord,” he said levelly.  “I confess my fault, and throw myself on your mercy.”

He’d always known that if their sins were found out there would be hell to pay.  Still, he winced internally at the disgust on Alfred’s face, and the vindictive triumph on Asser’s.

“But there was another man, the one in charge – I do not see him here.  He was a barbarian indeed, and named himself in his arrogance!  _Uhtred Ragnarson!”_

Beocca was standing beside the king, and flinched almost physically.  Alfred didn’t move, but his mouth and nostrils were pinched with rage.

“Did you indeed go raiding with Ealdorman Uhtred, Leofric?” he asked coldly.  “Into Cornwallum, which is at peace with Wessex? – Impersonating Danes, so that you could raid and thieve from good Christian people, and murder a Christian king?”

Well.  Murdering a king hadn’t exactly figured in their plans to begin with, but he could hardly deny the rest of it.  And once Skorpa had entered the picture, the rest of it had seemed inevitable; any victory over a sword-Dane and his warband would be costly, even if the victory could be achieved, and by then it would be entirely possible that Peredur would feel brave enough to renege on the deal and pay them nothing.  Moreover, once Uhtred had set eyes on the pagan Shadow-queen it seemed that whatever wits the arseling possessed had flown out of the window.  He wanted Iseult and he wanted the king’s silver, and it would have been a saint or a fool who’d have passed up the chance of plunder if it was to be had. God knows that the villages they’d ransacked up to that point had hardly had so much as a hen that was worth stealing.

“Yes, Lord,” he repeated dully.  No amount of reasoning or explanation would weigh with Alfred; best to just own to his crimes and bear his punishment.

“You will be held in confinement until I have had time to consider what your punishment should be, both for treason to me and for your sin against Holy Church.  In the meantime –

“Lord Odda!”

“My lord king.”  The young weasel stepped forward, fairly trembling with eagerness.

“You will send men immediately to Uhtred Ragnarson and order him to attend me here.”

“I could go in person, my lord...”

_Little shit,_ Leofric thought derisively.  _I’ll bet he’d enjoy every minute of it. Though he’d definitely make sure at least two strong men were between him and Uhtred when he gave the order._

Alfred considered.  “I think not.  As Ealdorman of Wessex, your counsel will be of value when the Witan reassemble tomorrow.”

Odda did his best not to show his disappointment, bending his head obediently.  Still, he must needs vent his disappointment on somebody, so he gestured sharply at two men-at-arms.  “Take that man into custody!  Remove his weapons and make sure he is closely held!”

Leofric’s hand tightened briefly on his sword-hilt, but there was nothing to be done.  With abrupt movements he unbuckled the belt and passed it over, sword and all, and after it his saex in its sheath.  “My lord king,” he said gruffly, pointedly bowing to Alfred and not Odda.

Then, because there was nothing left but waiting to find out what his punishment was to be, he allowed himself to be led out of the chamber, and shortly found himself locked in a storeroom full of apples.  And, not having eaten since breakfast, he shrugged philosophically, sat down on the floor and started eating one.


	2. Chapter 2

After eating apples for breakfast and then more apples for lunch, Leofric was tired of apples.  He was about to begin banging on the storeroom door and demanding to be brought food fit for a man rather than a horse when he heard Beocca’s voice outside, raised in unmistakable anxiety.

“Uhtred.  _Uhtred!”_

 _The Gods send the arseling enough sense to get him through this,_ Leofric thought grimly.  He peered through the window, but could catch only a glimpse of the warrior striding towards the chapel where the Witangemot was being held, with Beocca hustling him anxiously forward.

He himself had been dealt with the previous day.  He’d had to confess to Bishop Alewold and hand over his share of the plunder by way of penance before being returned to his appley prison – presumably this was more convenient than the usual ones because he would be wanted shortly and he would be readily to hand there.  No doubt Alfred would find it some additional way to make his displeasure known for a while, but with the church professing itself satisfied, the king was pragmatic enough to retain the services of one of his most skilled fighters.  Odda would certainly do everything he could to make his liegeman’s life unpleasant from now on – that much he’d already promised, venomous as always towards anyone who made him look as pathetic as he actually was.

None of it had been enjoyable, but Leofric was a realist; things could have been worse.  He’d had to stifle a bit of a sigh as he saw his hard-earned silver disappear into the bishop’s saddlebags, and he wasn’t looking forward to being the butt of young Odda’s spite, especially now the church at Curnuit had been attacked and their erstwhile ally Skorpa was being held responsible.  But he feared for young Uhtred, because the arseling hadn’t yet had enough of the arrogance knocked out of his head to let some sense into it, and there was no doubt at all that he’d come here to make a scene.

Alfred did not like scenes.  He did not like being kept waiting, either.  And unless Uhtred found from somewhere the wisdom to moderate his temper, admit his crimes and bow his head to the king’s justice, Leofric was very much afraid that the outcome would be tragic.

He stayed at the window, watching and listening.  Faintly he heard the sound of raised voices; no surprise there.  And even less surprise that a very short while later two men-at-arms opened the door of his cell, seized his arms and marched him towards the chamber where – at a guess – his friend had been doing his very best to make bad worse.

If he’d had the chance to exchange two words with him beforehand, things might have been different.  True, they might not; Uhtred was too consumed by his own needs to be pragmatic – witness the way he’d stood back and let young Odda steal a march on him by claiming all the credit for the fight at Cynuit. It was to be hoped that finding out that Alfred already knew exactly what had happened to Peredur and had a dozen witnesses ready (himself included) would have straightened the arseling’s thinking, but Leofric had had too much experience of Uhtred’s reckless self-belief to put much hope in it; and anyway, it hadn’t happened.  The fool had surged straight into Alfred’s presence, unwarned, and almost certainly straight into the trap that was waiting for him.

And indeed, as he was shoved roughly through the doors at the rear of the chamber, he heard Uhtred shouting his innocence, lying through his teeth to a king who already knew he was guilty.

As another witness was announced, Uhtred spun to confront him.  The arseling couldn’t control the dismayed drop of his jaw when he saw who was to accuse him.  “What is this?”

“Odda means for you to die as a traitor, and you will die,” Leofric ground out as he was brought level with the man against whom he was to bear witness; had the fool really not realised the deadly peril he was in?  “If it is Valhalla you want, I will do my best to give it you.”

“I said, you will stand separate,” Odda ordered icily.  “Leofric, you have sworn your oath, and you will tell the truth.”

So he had, and there was no alternative.  He dipped his head.  “I will, Lord.”

“God is merciful.”  Young Odda eyed him disdainfully.  “You are a man of Wessex – and have been loyal to the king?”

 _Playacting bastard, he’s loving every minute of this._ “I am loyal to the king, Lord.  Always.”

“Were you in Cornwallum with the ealdorman Uhtred?”

“I was.”

“Did you kill – and plunder – Peredur and his Britons?”

“I did.”

“Leofric, have you now donated your share of the plunder to the Church?”

“I have, Lord, and have begged forgiveness.”

“The Witan hears you, Leofric.”  Odda turned his eyes coldly towards Uhtred.  “Whom did you follow into battle?”

He swallowed.  “I went willingly, Lord.”

“No – Uhtred led, you followed.  _He_ is the ealdorman, and _he_ is to blame!”

“I share the blame, Lord.”  It was true enough; without support, even the mad arseling would have had to think twice about going raiding in Cornwallum.

Odda was having none of it.  “No _, he_ is responsible!”

 _“Irresponsible!”_ interjected Ælswith, self-righteous as always, her face rigid with disdain.

“And he will pay for it with his life!”

Alfred glared at the defiant Dane, caught with the lies on his lips, and Beocca leaned forward desperately to plead, “For the last time, beg!”

Uhtred’s temper – still raw from the humiliation of the crawl through the streets of Wintanceaster – ignited.   “No!  I will not beg!  I will fall to my knees for no man, no king, and no Christian God!”

He drew Serpent-Breath, but before he could even lift it he was seized by the men guarding him, and a sword was at his throat.

“Yes.”  Alfred walked forward, watching him.  “He must pay with his life.”

Leofric swallowed again, and looked at the king.  “Lord, if I may make a plea to the king and to the Witan.”

Young Odda glared at him.  “I have not yet finished.”

“I beg your pardon, Lord, but if I may...”  The king looked hard at him, but nodded that he might continue.  He drew a deep breath.  “It is clear that, like me, the arseling here is guilty.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Uhtred sarcastically, turning his head as far as was possible with a blade against his throat.

Ignoring him, Leofric ploughed onward.  “It is also clear that he is too proud and too stupid to repent – and as a consequence will die.”

“He will die for leading men to treachery!” snarled Odda, sensing a possible attempt to rescue the prisoner from the consequences of his crimes.

It was to the king, however, that Leofric went on speaking, as much man to man as servant to sovereign.  “Because of my own guilt, and because of my respect for Uhtred as a warrior, I request that he dies at my sword.”

Alfred looked puzzled.  “You wish to become executioner, Leofric?”

He lifted his head.  “My plea is for a fight to the death, Lord – me against the arseling.  If God is with me, I will be the victor and the ealdorman is allowed to die as a warrior should.”

“And if he should win this fight to the death – what then?” demanded Odda angrily, as the king turned away, plainly considering the offer.

“He will not.” Leofric spoke the words heavily, with regret but with honest belief in his own ability, honed by a lifetime of fighting. “It would take God’s intervention for him to beat me.”

Æthelwold spoke up.  “Let them fight, Lord.  Let God decide.”

Odda protested, as vehemently as he dared.  “Lord – Lord, it is clear the guilt lies with Uhtred!”

The king frowned thoughtfully for a moment, his hand raised for silence, and then his face cleared.  “Leofric, you have spoken well, and your request is granted.

“You will fight – tomorrow – to the death.  Swords and shields.

God shall determine the victor!”


	3. Chapter 3

“In the circumstances, Odda, I believe that it would not be appropriate for either of the combatants to be imprisoned.”

Alfred’s calm words plainly took the young ealdorman by surprise; he had been just about to order their confinement lest either of them have the idea of making a run for it.  For a moment it seemed he would protest that possibility, but he thought better of it.  “As you command, my lord,” he muttered.

It was hardly surprising that Uhtred wasted no time on conversation.  He snatched back his weapons, which had been wrested from him, and spun on his heel to march out of the hall, followed by Iseult.  Beocca dithered pitifully, but catching his eye, Leofric shook his head significantly.  Just at this moment, it would be a difficult decision which of them the arseling would have less time for – the friend who’d apparently betrayed him, or the priest who’d urged him to abase himself a second time to save his life.

With a duel to the death due to take place the next day, the Saxon thought grimly to himself that he might as well enjoy the rest of this one.  Quitting the palace, he made his way to the nearest whorehouse, where he spent a busy and happy afternoon with two of the employees on a bed of scratchy straw.  The alehouse down the road offered better food so afterwards he took himself off there, and by the time he’d eaten a bowl of good stew and downed a flask of ale his mood should have mellowed somewhat.  After all, even if he did have to kill Uhtred the next day, at least the arseling would have a warrior’s death.  He was well acquainted with the Danes’ belief that death with a weapon in the hand ensured passage to Valhalla, and meant to ensure that Uhtred did not breathe his last empty-handed.  If he could do nothing else for him – and the young fool’s obstinancy and arrogance had made sure of that – he could see that he died as a Dane rather than as a slaughtered bullock at the hands of Odda’s paid executioner.

That it would be an easy battle, he did not think for a moment.  That Uhtred really wanted to fight him, he believed even less.  That he would if forced to, and that he would fight like a lion, there was no doubt at all.  Still, for all his dash and fire – and real talent with a sword – the arseling did not yet have the long years of experience, the dogged acquisition of the shadowy skills that kept a man alive when sword and shield failed him.  Leofric had survived many situations where he should by rights have died, and benefited from the lessons they had taught him.  Now, however reluctantly, he meant to use any or all of them to stay alive in this duel.

The alehouse was warm and comfortable.  He had enough coin left to stay till bed beckoned, though he had no intention of drinking enough to dull his wits come morning.  He was almost resolved on doing so when Æthelwold came through the doorway, his face sliding from timorousness to relief and back again as he assessed his likely welcome.

“May I join you?”

“No.” Uncaring how much offence he gave – at that moment he couldn’t give a toss what the cowardly little prick thought – Leofric stood up.  At a guess, Æthelwold had got away with everything as usual, or he wouldn’t have that sly little smile slithering around his mouth.  No doubt anything that remained by now of his share of the stolen plunder had been secreted away, just in case.

Odda might well have discovered from his informants that Alfred’s nephew had been involved in the raid on Cornwallum.  But the king was sickly, and there was no saying how long he might live.  If Alfred died, Æthelwold was the next living relative and had a strong claim to the throne – whatever his failings, in default of a stronger claimant the Witan would be unlikely to resist it.  So Odda, with his usual gift for self-preservation, would be ill-advised to stir up trouble for the man who was probably the heir apparent to the throne of Wessex.  Besides, his insane jealousy was focussed primarily on Uhtred, the man who had married Mildrith whom he loved – insofar as he could love anyone other than himself.  It was Uhtred whom he craved to destroy.  Possibly he had some thought that Mildrith, widowed, would turn to him for protection, but there was no doubt that his hatred of the arseling was his driving obsession.

“He’s at the Two Cranes,” Æthelwold observed with a flickering smile as he sat and tossed down two silver pennies on the table – both recognisable as British coinage.  “I’d take your sword, if I were you.”

“I need your advice like I need your company – about as much as an extra arsehole.” With which crushing retort, Leofric left the alehouse.

Outside, the sky was dark.  A few drops of rain blew on the wind.

There were other alehouses. 

For a long moment, he stood undecided.

When the fight began, there would be no time for words.  Perhaps it was only right that they should be spoken now, while there still was time.

The arseling had always been a believer in destiny.  Tomorrow his own would finally catch up with him, but at least he should know that his death would come at the hands of a friend.

Leofric let out a long sigh.  And moments later, where he had stood there was only the rain blowing, and the empty street.

 

**The End.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> All reviews very much enjoyed!


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